On the Outside Looking In
by PirateMinx
Summary: Sherlock is back from the dead. Back in London. But London has changed without him and he needs to find a sense of where he stands in this new world. Starting where Series 3 begins, fictional part set between Mycroft's (not so) rescue and him reacquainting himself with John.


The endless hum and drone of traffic, as loud as a horde of angry wasps. The million speckles of light glimmering amongst the brick and glass spears thrusting up towards the sky. The scent…that unmistakeable mixture of train fuel, smog and cigarette smoke, freshly laid concrete and the general must of nine million people moving as one in the big city. It was London, and he needed to get it under his skin once more.

The cold winter breeze was cruel up here, snapping at his Belstaff coat with the persistence of an over eager Jack Russell. Without the light pollution of the capital below, the stars and the moon reigned supreme and Sherlock bathed in it; the silver orb suspended above cast a bright haze over him making it look like his face was sculpted from marble. His eyes were grey, green, blue – anything on this night. His newly trimmed hair left is earlobes exposed – he had let it grow wild and unruly on his European mission – and now the cold bit into them. But he did not let it perturb him. He could stand on this rooftop for hours still.

_Two years_. Two years it had been since he had last felt St. Bart's beneath his feet. Two years since Moriarty had stripped him of his friends and reputation and then blown the back of his skull off in front of him. _Two long years_. He could hear the horror in John's voice and see the way the phone dropped from his ear in disbelief, as though it were yesterday. He of course could not let on to Mycroft how hard it had been to disappear and play dead, but hard it had been. He had thrown himself into the work because work was all he had. With no one to impress or to banter with, it was just him on the run, hot on the heels of Moriarty's cleverly hidden lap dogs, and he had been lonely. So lonely. Now he was back, there were reconciliations to make and he was not sure which would be the hardest.

Sherlock slipped back through the mostly deserted hospital as easily and unremarkably as though he were the dust particles in the air; unnoticeable, part of the building. No one noticed him, heard him, felt him. He was invisible.

Back on street level, the wind chill factor had depleted, replaced by the ominous threat of the night's frost to come. But he moved quickly, his toned and lithe figure twisting sleekly through the side streets like a panther. His chosen method of transport was the iconic and sometimes impersonal black cab, but he knew the streets as well as any cabbie, better than most. And tonight he needed the air.

He reached his destination quicker even than he would have thought. A quiet avenue in the outskirts of Greenwich. The curved slopes of the Dome were just hidden behind a row of tall and narrow town houses, obscured, but he could still feel it there. It felt reassuring to know the place by landmarks. London would never let him down in that respect.

The house he stood outside held more charm than those it neighboured. The bricks above the mahogany door were coloured pink and lilac, the knocker wrought iron and individualised. The letter box stood in the garden, grown over delicately with ivy and blossom and a handsome bird table bore evidence of resident house martins and robins. The curtains had not been drawn despite the darkness, and Sherlock could clearly see through into the warm and inviting living room. The fire crackling merrily in the hearth, the candles lit and burning on the mantel piece, the jaunty abstract art hanging on the walls. It was her all over, he decided.

Molly was sat curled up on the floor, perched atop a faded bean bag, her mink brown hair loose about her shoulders. It had grown since he had last seen her, or perhaps it was because he only saw her in a ponytail. No, it had definitely grown. In fact, she was different in several ways. Unobserved, or what she considered to be unobserved, Molly Hooper was a rose in full bloom. Her cheeks bore a soft blush from the heat of the fire which only amplified her natural beauty and added warmth to her eyes. Her pale lips were parted in a smile as she fussed and played with something on the floor; a small springer spaniel puppy, ears flapping wildly as it scampered over and onto her bare legs, paws scrabbling for purchase on her dress. The fabric around the top fell slightly revealing the bare smooth flesh of her shoulders, the wide expanse of her decollate, leading down to her modest cleavage. She was carefree and now that she was not stumbling over her awkwardness trying to catch his eye, he could now see her beauty. So absorbed in this comely scene, he almost missed the sound of the car pulling up outside and the soft pop as a door opened and closed. Almost.

"Quite the idyllic home scene she pictures, doesn't she?"

Sherlock didn't even turn his head. "Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I was waiting to see when you would reacquaint yourself with your pets. I must say I am surprised you came here."

Sherlock's lips curled in annoyance. "They are not my _pets_. And I have no idea what you mean."

"Yes, you do." Mycroft strode through the garden path as brazenly as though it were his own home. To passers-by the two brothers would be quite noticeable, the best dressed burglars in town, but the street was deserted and Molly was otherwise blissfully unaware of her visitors. "John was the first person you mentioned after I rescued you from Serbia, so I was waiting for you to make contact with him. I had no idea that Miss Hooper would be your first port of call. What are you going to say?"

Sherlock turned his head a short turn, allowing his sharp features to betray his irritation. "First of all Mycroft, you did not rescue me. We have been through this. I tracked the criminals down and had no choice but to be captured and you watched as they beat me to a pulp. You brought me to London no sooner than I was ready. And second of all, I am not going to say anything. I was merely conducting some recon."

Mycroft sidled closer, his sneering all-knowing voice infecting his brother's ear like a poison. "I had no idea recon involved you hankering outside a house like a beaten puppy. Although…" His mouth twisted lopsidedly and his brow furrowed into an appraising and scrutinising stare, like a farmer eyeing up a prize cow. "She _does _hold some sort of appeal, I suppose. Harmless and simpering. Pleasant enough, if you go for that some sort of thing. But I didn't think you did go for that sort of thing, brother dear."

"She helped me," Sherlock replied simply. "Without her…none of this would have worked. I owe her…my thanks."

Mycroft surveyed his brother as though reading him for the first time. Slowly, a small smile spread across his oval features. His arms folded neatly, two interlocking links of iron. "You have grown attached to her. Absence _does _make the heart grow fonder."

"I don't know what you –"

"You've come too late, I'm afraid," Mycroft continued. "You would find out yourself no doubt, but I see no point in prolonging your _ah _agony. She's engaged."

Sherlock was surprised at the stab he felt go through his chest, like a prong of ice driven deep into his insides. For quite a while he did not know what it was. He turned and faced his brother, preened and manicured as ever, the pinnacle of the British government. "She's…?"

"Engaged yes," Mycroft nodded, his face solemn and unfathomable. _The icy prong twisted deeper. _"A few months ago, I believe. Settled and happy. Same as John Watson. It is what the normal people do apparently. Is it us on the outside looking in, Sherlock?" He smiled at the sight of them both peering in through the window on this cold night. "Perhaps this is the price we pay for genius."

"Perhaps indeed." Sherlock bristled past him curtly and onto the pavement, his long coat rippling behind him. He got almost to the corner junction when he heard his brother resignedly call after him.

"Where are you going, Sherlock?"

_Home_, he wanted to reply. But he didn't have a home. He had survived death; had been reborn from the ashes like a phoenix, given a second chance, saved by his own ingenuity and forward thinking and of course the help and loyalty of a few choice people. The news stations had restored his status as an icon and a hero, but what good was a hero when you have nothing to show for it? He had been almost apprehensive of his return. He was on the back foot, a position he never enjoyed. London had changed without him, which it had no right doing and he had to come to terms with that. But his friends had moved on, and he had not expected that.

John had a girlfriend, according to Mycroft and of course Mycroft knew everything before it even happened. He had left Baker Street and was ready to propose. A huge bombshell. He had carved a life and it seemed to have a Sherlock shaped hole no longer. But with perseverance, Sherlock knew he could bring him back. So he had a woman now. So be it. It was clearly something he needed to fill the void where crime solving had been. And at least this would stop the constant questioning of his sexuality, something which he knew John hated. It would be a change, and he hated change, but it would have to be something he came to terms with. Eventually.

But this. This was not… This was not what he had envisaged. Molly had always been… _his. _

_Cocky_, Sherlock could almost hear John hiss, but he shrugged it off. It was true. He had never seen it at the time, never appreciated or noticed it to the full extent, because he was always distracted. This is what ordinary people could not seem to fathom. There was always a distraction. Work was always his anchor. Had to be.

But on the side-lines, in his peripheries, he had always been aware of her presence. The soft powder of her foundation and the blusher she used that was always two shades too bright. The musky smell of her perfume and the captivating peach and apricot of her shampoo that caught his nostrils whenever she was hovering nervously at his side. The way she held onto his coffee mug long after he had left the half touched liquid to grow cold, dithering on whether or not to make him a second cup or to just let him work. The way she would watch him work in the morgue, thinking he could not feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. The way she drank in every word he spoke, but stumbled on every one of her replies… He noticed it all but had never… appreciated it.

Until he had been away. In his absence, his team (for that was how he thought of them however distantly) were always close to his thoughts. And Molly had been at the forefront of them. Her unwavering loyalty, her sweet kindness and despite his cool indifference her aptitude and swiftness to help. When everyone else questioned, she was there, always believing in him. She never asked why, just what she could do. She had made his escape possible. She had given him life. And in those cold nights in the Serbian forests on the run, he had thought, wondered…

His slim pale fingers absent-mindedly fished into his pocket and retrieved the now aged and dog eared scrap of paper that he had kept with him all this time. The message that had given him even the smallest spark of compassion and hope when he felt at his lowest. From that Christmas…

_All my love, Molly…_

Just words. Empty words written on a Christmas gift tag. But they knew that in this case it meant more than that and it was a sincere…promise if anything. And it had surprised him, but it had been this affection that had kept him going whilst he had been away. Molly was the part of London that would stay the same, would not change…

But she had. She had changed, she had moved on. He could go back, he thought at first. Knock softly on the door. Wait for her to open the door, her eyes blink and widen in surprise, her lips to part in shock. He could swoop down and kiss her, not tenderly on the cheek, but snatch her up and show her exactly how important she was, and make the weak and fragile flame of her self-esteem roar into a furnace. He could tell her she was special and he did care and he knew now why he had been waiting. He shook his head slowly. No, he couldn't. She wasn't his Molly anymore.

Sherlock frowned. His eyes were moist and glistening. _The cold wind_, he told himself.


End file.
